The Edge of Europe (Part I)

I read not long ago that the Orient Express was still in service, running a route through Europe, starting in Paris and ending in Istanbul. The name itself evokes the old elegant world of travel when people dressed their best and regarded the journey as the adventure. The dark, lavish private cabins, carpeted throughout, a dining car with fancy lamps and polished silver, porters at your beck and call. I know this train must still exist, and I thought about it as we headed towards Istanbul, imagining that we were taking that iconic journey—after all, we had started out in Paris, and we had gone by train the entire way. But our train was far from the Orient Express, and I'm not even talking about the decor. For one thing, it didn't even reach Istanbul.

We had been sleeping nicely, even with the knowledge there’d be the inevitable border crossing at 2:00 am, but that would merely be a knocking at the door. We were snug in our cabin; I was even wearing my jammies. A knock did come at our door, as expected, but it was the ticket man, and he had woken us to deliver some news. Indeed the border was near. But we were to get dressed and collect our luggage, on top of that strip our beds and hand back our sheets. Thank you very much. Chris and I just looked at each other. What did he just say? We listened to the conversation as he spoke with the people in the cabin next door. I heard a girl ask “We're taking a bus?” and the ticket man answered in the affirmative.

It seemed entirely unfair that we had to get dressed and heave our bags on our backs and leave our comfy sleeper, especially when we had been looking so forward to ending our train journey in Istanbul (it was all part of the symbolism of crossing Europe). But fair or not we had to leave the train. We were at the Turkish border and had to purchase our visas. We were first in line and had the privilege of watching the immigration official finish his game of Solitaire before he turned to serve us. They weren't accepting Bulgarian currency, and there was no ATM around to dispense Turkish lira. Thankfully I had an emergency stash of American bills on me, just enough to pay for our visas. We got our passports stamped without much hassle and went to go find the blessed bus to take us to Istanbul. It was 2:00 in the morning, but there was a group of kids playing soccer in the parking lot. Who knows where they had come from and why they were there; didn't matter, we boarded our bus (which was a nice bus thankfully) and settled in for a three-hour journey.

I slept on and off, not as well as I had on the train. Someone was snoring exceptionally loud. Chris said “That fucker sounds like Sea Biscuit,” which was funny, but didn't help us sleep. Somewhere along the way I must have drifted off because when I opened my eyes we were in civilization. Massive civilization. The sun hadn't risen, but the sky was more gray than black. I saw hills of concrete rippling across the landscape in the pre-dawn light. We could have been passing through another city, but instinctively I knew we were in Istanbul. I had been here before. I remembered Istanbul from the greatest trip of life, back when I was just nineteen. I had waited a long time to return, but here we were. It was like revisiting an old friend.

Byzantium

We pulled into the station much earlier than expected. It was just after 5:00. I think everyone on board was a little shocked to be dropped off so suddenly. There was a bit of confusion. What was open at this early hour? The station was empty. I had to use the bathrom but it cost lira which we didn't have. We went on the search for an ATM, heading into a city that was still very much asleep.

I was somewhat familiar with the old section of the city. I knew we had to get to Sultanhamet where the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia were, the two standout monuments in that area. Our hostel would be nearby.  We had no map so I kept my eye out for minarets. Two young girls were trailing after us, as they didn't know where to go and were trusting us to take them to someplace interesting. I spotted an unmistakable minaret down a street and I knew we were near. Sure enough, our path suddenly widened and Aya Sofia, that hulk of Byzantine glory, was before us. The girls tottled off and Chris and I rounded the structure, which was now glowing gold in the new morning light. There was nobody about. I remembered from before how packed this whole area was by day, a loud chaotic mix of tourists and hawkers. To stand there and have the place to ourselves was really something. It was a perfect return to Istanbul.

We followed a path behind Aya Sofia, and to our delight we saw two dogs romping around under one of the massive minarets. I don't think I've ever witnessed two other creatures having so much fun. They paid no heed to us as we walked by, they were too busy playing tag (or whatever game dogs play) with such obvious grins on their faces, it was impossible not to feel their joy. You could tell that they were best mates.

Our hostel was easy to find. It was about a stone's throw from Aya Sofia (That may be an exageration, as I don't think I could lob a stone that far. Maybe somebody could though, possibly someone who could throw stones really far). Anyway, it was close, suprisingly close. None of our other hostels have been close to anything, except maybe a tram stop. I knew from the reviews of Mavi Guesthouse that the place was pretty rough, but it was the cheapest place in town, and it had a rooftop dorm which sounded intriguing.

The street was quiet. We stood infront of the guesthouse not knowing what to do. The door was locked and we didn't know if we should go about waking anybody. Thankfully a face peered down at us from the rooftop. We assumed it was the owner. Who else would be up at this hour? A minute later he opened the door for us and let us in, ushering us into the reception room. He told us we could help ourselves to drinks, which was very kind of him, but he wasn't doing much in way of registering us. He sat down across from us and told us that there had been a huge party the night before, which may have explained his demeanor. He looked to be either drunk or hungover, for his words were coming out slowly, and he kept sighing and shaking his head, as if this was all too much for him to handle. Chris and I sat there all expectant, all ready to be checked in, but the guy wasn't remotely interested in doing such a thing. Finally he revealed to us that he wasn't the owner. He was just a guest.

It was going on 6:00 and a girl walked into the room. She spotted us and froze, her eyes swiveling back and forth between us and our new friend. “Hello,” she said, more of a question than a greeting. I thought she was sort of being rude, but the way she kept looking at our strange friend I got the feeling that we shouldn't have been let in by him. She went into action to register us, supplying us with two rooftop beds. We left that awkward scene and followed a spiral staircase upward. I'm sure we must have made a ton of noise. The staircase was incredibly creaky and we kept clanging upwards. We came to a very strange room near the top, a room loaded with an incredible number of bunk beds, and what looked like giant tent flaps instead of a wall. It may have been our dorm, but it wasn't a rooftop, so we kept climbing higher. We arrived at the rooftop and realized there were no beds, just bean bags. So apparantly our room had been that strange place below. We put our bags down and plonked down on some bean bags, taking in the view.

Some hotels may boast having some kind of view. But I've never seen any view to equal the one from the top of Mavi Guesthouse. Aya Sofia was right there. Like, right there. The greatest monument from the Byzantine age was right at our doorstep. It was kind of hard to believe, and I kept my eye on it just in case it might disappear. Just down from it we could make out the spindly appendages of the Blue Mosque, and if we swiveled around, we could take in the Bosphurus, that straight of water that divides Europe and Asia. We sunk into our bean bags and reflected on how lucky we were in that moment.

It was the end and the beginning for us. First of all it was the end of our stretch across Europe. We really had completed it now, no question. Although it couldn't be determined if it was actually the end of Europe or the beginning of Asia. It was perhaps a bit of both. Like Istanbul in many ways, it was a crossroads place for us. It was to be our home for five days, the longest we had yet to spend in one place.

Turkish Hospitality

We started our stay in Turkey with a nap. We couldn't help it, our night's sleep had been interupted. It was hard choosing bunk beds. Not that there weren't enough of them, but because none of them seemed ideal. It was a bit random, these beds. Some were two high, and some were three. They weren't lining the room as in the other dorm rooms we had stayed, but were scattered about as if tornado had set them down there. Chris and I chose two bottom bunks that were pushed together. They were almost in the center of the room which assured us that we would have no privacy whatsoever. Chris' bed was nearest to the bathroom and the lockers. Mine was open to about six other bunks; six other people I'd be sharing sleep with in very close proximity. It was almost like communal living. But anyway, it didn't matter. We were in Istanbul with that fabulous view outside. We curled up in our new bunks and fell asleep.

I was awakened by a blanket being placed ontop of me. It startled me a bit, but I looked up to see an older woman there. She looked as startled as me. She hadn't meant to awaken me. It occurred to me that I must have looked cold so she was covering me up. It was such a thoughtful gesture, almost motherly. She said something in Turkish, and I smiled at her and fell back asleep.

Hunger prompted us to rise. We followed the path around Aya Sofia and came to the main square, and sure enough it was noisy and crammed full of people. There were a few hawkers, but it wasn't as bad as I remembered. Back in 1996 this was the square where I bought a flute and a scarf and a guidebook and maybe something else. Back then I was quite the target, every hawker from miles around running towards me. They were like pigeons, you feed one and a suddenly a dozen flock around. But now, years older and with Chris by my side, it wasn't the same experience. We were able to walk through the square without much hassle.

We found food in the form of kebab and had our first Turkish meal. The prices weren't as cheap as I remember, but compared to Western Europe they weren't bad. It was nice to finally order food and not have to sit in a park or on a curb to eat it. It was also nice to be welcomed into every restaurant we passed. This was somewhat of a big deal to me, as I felt we had been snubbed quite often in Europe, or had been made to feel as if we were a nuissance. Here there was no such feeling. Here we felt as if we were a prize that every restauranteer was trying to gain. Which restaurant would we bless our presence with?

Turkish people are perhaps the most charming, hospitable people in the world. I know that they have enormous competition, and I know that a few right assholes must exist among their numbers, but compared to the countries we had been to thus far, they blew everyone else away (especially the “We speak French” lady in Montpellier). We didn't feel like we were in danger of being scammed or were afraid to ask for directions in exchange for money or a visit to their uncle's souvenir shop. The people seemed genuine.

The one time I saw Chris being hassled was when I came back from the bathroom at the kebab place. This guy couldn't speak English but he kept saying “Money, money” and gesturing. Chris was digging through his pockets for some change, and when he presented a few coins the guy shook his head and repeated “Money” then bent down as if pantomiming. Chris had an epiphany and in a flourish of gestures assured the guy “No, money not mine.”  He explained to me that a few minutes before he had seen the guy pick a lira note up off the street, and now he was asking if that money was his. His honesty and his eagerness to communicate was touching.

A real example of hospitality was when Chris and I ventured over the Galata Bridge to the more modern part of the city. There was a baklava shop that had drawn me in. I couldn't believe how many different types there were. I asked the young guy behind the counter if I could have one, and he got out a box to fill. “Oh no,” I said, “Just one.” The guy didn't know what to do, and it occured to me that they only sold baklava by the box. However the owner came over and told the guy to give me the piece for no charge, “My gift,” he said, touching his hand to his heart. See, this is the kind of stuff I'm talking about. Of course everyone's out for a profit, but Turks must have gotten the memo that friendliness works better than agressiveness. And believe me, Chris and I have been to a few countries in our time that haven't discovered that little secret. Like in Morocco, Chris and I found ourselves not able to trust anyone and avoided eye contact with anyone trying to sell something. It made walking through the souks most unpleasant. In Turkey, they were genuinely happy to have you, even if you were just looking.

Magic

There's something almost fairy-tale like about Istanbul. The skyline is like no other. The Golden Horn is perhaps the most inspiring place on earth for me. It's the mixture of mosques and towers and turrets and the bustle of the markets and the cry of the seagulls. There's an aura about the place, and for me it has to do with the layers of history. It feels like Byzantium. It also feels like Constantinople. It's a city you can envision in any age. And that to me is magic.

Chris and I took the obligatory boat ride on the Bosphorus. As we pulled away from shore I was surprised how much I remembered. I pointed sites out to Chris, palaces and such along the water, amazed at how much of Istanbul has remained in my brain. I'm not like this with most cities. In Paris I still couldn't point you in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, even though I've been there three times.

We enjoyed our little cruise, passing underneath one of the bridges that span the Bosphorus, thus connecting Europe to Asia. The weather wasn't the best, it was hazy out in the open water. But pulling back into the Golden Horn is the stuff of poetry. Isn't there some poem by Yeats called “Sailing to Byzantium”? Something like that. It is a pretty amazing experience, approaching the city from the water. It's one of those travel experiences you just have to do. And more than that, grab a fresh fish sandwich right off the pier, straight from a fishing boat. They grill the fish in front of you, slap it on a roll with some onions, and add a squeeze of lemon. You can't get any fresher fish. Superb.

As night set in Chris and I wandered over to the Blue Mosque. During the day there's a line around the courtyard to get in. In the evening it's peaceful and spectacurlary beautiful all lit up. Chris and I slipped out of our shoes, I wrapped a scarf over my head (which they provided at the entrance) and we entered and stood below the giant dome. Visitors could only go so far, but we could look over the prayer area. There were several worshippers there, touching their heads to the carpet in submission. There was a quiet hum about the place, and dare I say—it felt very peaceful. Now I don't advocate any religion, or even religion in general. I find when you dig into the roots of any religion, any religion, you'll always come back to the main tree from which its branches grow. In other words, yes, they're all the same. Variations of a theme. It's the fundamentalism within particular religions, the whole black and white mentality that borders on fanatisism, is what gives any religion bad PR. But I get the draw of Islam. I think there's a certain beauty, even mysticism to it. I'll never be a muslim, but I can appreciate it on some level.

We hung out in the square, caught between the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia. Overhead was a full moon. Supermoon I believe they were calling it, or it would be the next night, at its fullest.

Back at the hostel I enjoyed one last moment with Istanbul before falling asleep. I heard something click on in the distance, and from the tent flaps of our dorm, prayer call came wafting in. I climbed the steps up to the rooftop, and found myself all alone. How could this be? It didn't matter. Prayer call sounded from the minarets of the Blue Mosque. It alone wailed over trees and buildings, until another one kicked in, and then it was a duet. And then the Aya Sofia prayer call sounded, and that was about as strong as thunder, blasting straight towards the Mavi Guesthouse. Soon there were three prayer calls trying hard to outwail each other. It was like a competition. I was caught between all three, pulled by one, then the other, then the other. Then one by one they faded away, and the city was relatively quiet. I looked behind me and there was the moon, and sure enough it looked like Supermoon, shining over the Bosphorus. What I said before—magic.